


baby, i'd simp for you any day

by Iris_Duncan_72



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But on the other hand, Couch Cuddles, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pining, Resolved Romantic Tension, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, fell into this fandom by accident, fuck u.s. english, in that i have no idea what canon actually is, on a scale of kpop to the witcher how responsive is this fandom?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-21 15:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iris_Duncan_72/pseuds/Iris_Duncan_72
Summary: Clay makes the trip to London to see George and naps a lot.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 194





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i hear these guys don't mind fic being written about them which is great. someone hmu if that changes. not that i meant to write this in the first place!!! i've been binging on minecraft manhunt for a week and then my sister casually informs me that there's loads of dreamnotfound fanfic online and i just--
> 
> [thousand mile stare straight into the sun]
> 
> anyway. enjoy this humble offering of paper plate face and screaming boy no. 1 being soft!!

Clay's never been good with long aeroplane flights. He doesn't get airsick, thank god, but anything longer than a five hour trip leaves him feeling shattered and in desperate need of a nap. The flight from Florida to London is about ten hours, which pretty much means he's going to be fucked for half the day but that's okay. He's expecting that and as it's not Clay's first trip to England, George is expecting that too.

The time finally comes for the plane to take off and Clay jams his headphones on his head as soon as they start taxiing, staring resolutely at the low ceiling until that part of the ordeal is complete and the plane reaches cruising altitude. The rest of the flight passes fairly painlessly, even if he could swear someone dragged out those ten hours to twenty. When the plane begins its descent into Heathrow Airport, he presses the knuckles of one tight-clenched fist into the side of his thigh and tries to concentrate on the fact that he's doing this for George, that this is all worth it because he's so damn close to actually _seeing_ George again. Sure, the accent is kinda cute but having the Atlantic Ocean between them really _sucks_.

Clay fires up his phone and flicks George a text announcing his arrival before he leaves the plane and immediately gets a reply that involves a whole lot of exclamation marks and excited emojis. He smiles because he can't help it, then slings his backpack over one shoulder and joins the queue of passengers making their way out into the English air. It's midsummer, which means Clay's in a long-sleeved t-shirt and sweats because he doesn't wear short sleeves for anything less than eighty degrees. George will laugh, of course, but since Clay laughed at him when he had to endure three weeks of Floridian early autumn last year, it seems only fair. Finding his suitcase on the conveyor belt doesn't take long, although Clay nearly misses it the first time around because he's literally falling asleep on his feet, and he gets through customs in under half an hour, which has to be some sort of record. It is, after all, the middle of the day here and Heathrow's one of the busiest airports in the world.

There's a scattered, ever-shifting crowd of people milling about out front, waiting for friends and family of their own, but Clay is quick to spot George. The bright green of Clay's bright green hoodie is hard to miss and Clay feels grateful for the first time that his hoodie had somehow wound up in George's suitcase last year. It was George's idea to wear it to the airport, insisting that it was like a secret code between them, to which Clay had responded with peals of laughter. It takes George longer to find Clay and Clay can feel himself smiling again as he watches his friend bounce on his toes, intently scanning the flood of new arrivals. Then their gazes lock and George's entire face lights up with the same delight Clay can feel glowing behind his sternum, all bright and warm.

'Clay!' George crows.

Clay doesn't have a chance to respond before he's being hauled down into a familiar hug, lean arms crushing his ribs. Releasing the handle of his suitcase at once, he wraps his arms around George's back and drops his head onto George's shoulder, sighing in content. Fuck, he could go to sleep right here, right now.

George shakes under him as he snorts. 'Wakey-wakey, sleepyhead. You can nap later.'

'Gah,' Clay grumbles, but he straightens up, glancing down with a smirk. 'Hey there, shortstack. Looking good in my hoodie.'

'Oh my god, shut up,' George retorts, rolling his eyes, but the tips of his ears are going pink which means Clay wins. 'You can have it back when we get to the car. Wouldn't want you getting _cold.'_

'Low hanging fruit,' Clay scoffs, grabbing his suitcase again and dragging it along behind them.

'Maybe that's as high as I can reach,' George counters, grinning.

Clay blinks in surprise, his brain sluggishly parsing meaning from the words, then bursts out laughing. George's eyes sparkle and he leads the way outside into the mild, dry warmth of London.

Despite his best intentions, Clay falls asleep five minutes into the drive to George's place and the rest of the journey passes in the blink of an eye. He wakes to George talking loudly at him and gently shaking his arm. Like the really very wonderful friend he is, George takes the suitcase this time and the second they're inside, the front door clicking shut behind them, he shoves Clay out of the entranceway towards the hall.

'Go on, go dive into bed,' George says. 'I'll see you when you're done hibernating.'

Clay toes off his shoes with marginally more consideration than he uses back home and dips his head in a heavy nod. 'Thanks, Georgie.'

George mutters half-hearted imprecations at the nickname but Clay's eyes are barely open now and he spins on one socked heel and teeters off to the spare room-slash-office, where he stayed last time. He doesn't glance around even once, his focus immediately honing in on the haphazardly dressed bed. Collapsing on it, Clay decides it's warm enough to forego the duvet and, snuggling down into the welcome softness of his newly returned hoodie, he promptly falls asleep.

Clay wakes to the sound of a quiet, irregular tapping sound. It takes his brain a couple of tries to connect the dots and realise that it's a sound he know very well - someone's typing on a keyboard. Oh, and there's a mouse clicking, too. That's weird. Why would they be doing that in the room he's sleeping in? As his eyes slowly open, Clay remembers where he is. England. London. George's place. So it stands to reason that George is the one using a computer. But he said he moved his gear into his own bedroom for the duration of Clay's stay, so really, what _is_ going on?

Rolling onto his back and scrubbing a hand over his face to free himself from the foggy clouds of sleep, Clay blinks, takes in his surroundings -

Oh, _shit_.

He's not in the spare room.

This is George's room.

Clay sits bolt upright, swaying as a moment of vertigo hits, and stares wide-eyed at the back of George's head. He's sitting at his desk, doing what looks like editing, headphones on. Apparently entirely unconcerned about the fact that Clay is lying in _his_ bed not ten feet away. Clay fumbles for his phone, which he'd shoved into the hoodie's front pouch, and whistles to see he slept for nearly six hours. As if on cue, his stomach grumbles but Clay has slightly more pressing things to deal with.

Running a hand through his hair (and wincing at what he can just _tell_ is a truly spectacular bedhead), Clay scrambles off the bed and walks around to George can see him. George startles, jumping in his seat and ripping off his headphones.

'Crap, man, I forgot you were in here,' George wails, rubbing a hand over his chest. 'Don't do that to my heart, jeez.'

Clay blinks again. 'Uh, right. Sorry, I - I must've gotten turned around earlier.'

It's George's turn to look confused. 'Huh?'

'I didn't _mean_ to crash in your bed,' Clay says. 'I guess I just reached for the first -'

Ah, but that's not true, is it? George's bedroom is further down the hall than the spare room, so quite frankly, what the _fuck_ , Clay's half-asleep brain?

George shrugs a shoulder. 'No big deal, don't worry about it. You were pretty out of it and I'm not _heartless_ , I wasn't gonna wake you up for that.' The tips of his ears go pink again and he all but glares at his computer as he mumbles, 'You, uh, you looked like you needed the rest.'

Maybe Clay's still half-asleep. That's really the only reason he can think for why he's staring at George so blatantly. Well, there are the other reasons, like the fact that watching the pink slowly engulf George's ears is weirdly fascinating and that his face is kinda sorta maybe cute when he does that embarrassed little pout -

'Food,' Clay blurts, more to escape the traitorous confines of his inner mind than because his stomach is threatening to growl again. 'I. I'm hungry.'

George seems just as desperate to latch onto the alternate topic and he quickly saves his editing progress, sends his computer to sleep, and ushers Clay out to the kitchenette. They decide to order pizza because what the hell else could they be expected to do on the first day of what is essentially a month-long sleepover? Between the two of them, they demolish the better part of three pizzas while catching each other up on the sorts of random tidbits about their day-to-day lives that always seem to come out so much easier in person than over voice call.

As neither of them has had anything approaching a normal sleep schedule for years and Clay just had a "nap", they stay up late into the night. There's Minecraft, of course, a couple of hours running around chasing each other with axes and swords and uncooked steaks and bales of hay as they try to beat each other to the end of the game. When Clay successfully blows up George, the dragon, and himself, in that order, with five beds, George yells in fury and declares he's had enough for the night. So they shift from computers to the TV and get into a heated debate about which movie to watch - in the end they agree on a wildlife documentary because George likes them and Clay doesn't actively dislike them.

It's nearly three in the morning, the coffee table is littered with empty cans, wrappers, and snack packets, and baby elephants are playing in a pool of mud, when Clay realises George has fallen asleep against his shoulder. They'd started out with a respectable six plus inches between them on the couch but that distance had been shrinking at an increasing rate for hours as they both got more comfortable. George is a tactile person by nature and Clay is much the same, so it's not uncommon for them to end up in each other's space. But this? George's head a solid weight on Clay's shoulder, his hair tickling the side of Clay's jaw, his sleep-warm arm pressed against Clay's? This is taking things a step further.

 _Not far enough,_ mutters an evil voice in the back of Clay's head but he gags it and stuffs it in his mental basement without blinking. He's gotten pretty good at that over the last few months.

It's hard to look at George properly like this because if Clay turns his head to far his chin will hit George's forehead, but he can see the truly boneless manner in which George is slumped into the couch and Clay, can hear the slow breaths of sleep deeper than a light doze. He wonders how long George has been sleeping and also why the hell he didn't notice earlier. If nothing else, it indicates an alarming lack of situational awareness on his part.

So now Clay has two options. One, he wakes George up and drags him off to bed before going to his own one (the _spare one_ ). Two, and he can't really believe he's genuinely considering this, he tries to find a marginally more comfortable position on the couch and they both sleep here for the night. The second one shouldn't even be an option - they would practically have to stack on top of each other to fit if they were to lie down and it would be _hell_ on both their spines if they slept slouched like this. Bad plan, bad plan. Definitely shouldn't go with it, definitely _should_ wake George up. On the other hand - cuddling with George.

Clay squeezes his eyes shut for a long second, valiantly trying to stave off the inevitable before he gives in. He's only human, alright? Besides, if there's anyone he knows who'd be happy to snuggle all night long, it's George.

Very carefully, Clay spends the next ten minutes easing himself into a horizontal position. Amazingly, George doesn't wake. He only stirs once, when Clay's reaching out for the remote to kill the TV. Clay freezes at once, heart slamming against his sternum, but George just makes a snuffly little noise and wiggles so he's half tucked between Clay and the back of the couch and half _on_ Clay, head resting on Clay's chest, arms slung loosely around his middle. Scarcely daring to breathe, Clay runs his fingers over George's short hair, so much darker than his own, and George sighs, going utterly limp again.

There's a lamp on behind the couch and Clay's mouth is going to taste _vile_ in the morning, but these are trivial problems. Pretty much anything short of the roof being ripped off would count as a trivial problem to Clay right now. So he lets himself bask in the warmth of his best friend's ( _more, more, more,_ hisses the evil voice but he shoots it in the face -) unconscious embrace and the equally powerful warmth bubbling away in his chest, and he drifts off to sleep.

In Clay's humble opinion, this is a pretty damn good start to his trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe i continue it? idk, i wrote this on a whim.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh here you go!

Past-Clay was right - his mouth tastes _horrendous_ when he wakes up and he grimaces even before his eyes are fully open. He's also feeling a bit squashed, his right ribs and hip aching slightly like -

Ah. That's right.

Clay stares down at George's flushed, sleeping face, still on his chest, and resists the urge to scream. Or explode. Possibly both and not necessarily in that order. He drops his head back onto the armrest none too gently and scowls up at the ceiling. How _exactly_ is he meant to get out of this predicament? There is no physically possible way for him to escape without waking George. Also, he has a growing need for the toilet, so feigning sleep until George wakes on his own isn't an option here.

Still, Clay can't quite bring himself to act. Not only is this going to be awkward as all hell but dammit, George looks so _cute,_ all soft and warm and tousled. As gently as he knows how, Clay lifts one hand to stroke George's hair, petting slowly. There's nothing particularly special about it and yet Clay is filled with a wave of something powerful and indefinable, something ferocious and desperately tender that steals the breath from his lungs. George doesn't so much as twitch and Clay dares to ghost his knuckles down George's pink cheek, his heart squeezing tight in his chest.

God, he's so fucking gone on this guy.

 _Wake him up,_ Clay tells himself angrily. As wonderful and utterly addictive as it is to be able to touch George like this, it also feels like a violation of trust. George lets his guard down around Clay because he feels safe, because he trusts Clay to be a _good friend_. And Clay is definitely _not_ being a friend right now.

So Clay shifts his hand to George's shoulder and shakes it lightly. 'George,' he says. 'George, wake up, I gotta piss.'

George groans in the back of his throat, nuzzling his face into Clay's chest for a torturous second before he freezes, his whole body tensing up.

Clay swallows hard. 'G' morning.' He tries to keep his voice steady.

George's fingers clench on Clay's waist before he drags his head up, looking only slightly less embarrassed than Clay is feeling. 'Hi,' he mumbles. 'Did I, ah, did I sleep here all -'

'You did,' Clay confirms. He hesitates, then pushes forward anyway. 'Didn't wanna wake you. You looked like you needed the rest.'

Any part of George's face that was wasn't red before immediately flushes at the quoting of his own words back at him. 'Oh. Um. Sorry?'

Clay makes a strangled noise that probably could've been a laugh in another universe. 'It's - it's fine. We're even now, anyway.'

'Right,' George agrees, sounding a little winded.

There's an endless moment where neither of them move. Clay is still in shock that this is even happening and that George hasn't leapt off him yet, and he can't bring himself to make the first move, which means he's just lying there staring at George like an idiot and desperately hoping he isn't blushing too. George stares back at him, wide-eyed and tense and _not moving_ , and the atmosphere between them charges with something that feels like lightning and -

George's gaze wavers, dipping for a split second down to Clay's mouth, and Clay's stomach _swoops_ -

'Toilet,' George squeaks, nearly elbowing Clay in the face as he tumbles off the couch. 'I need - I'm going - okay -'

And then he's gone, bare feet pattering away at speed and then the bathroom door slams shut.

Clay sags into the couch, feeling ridiculously exhausted even as his heart races. He slings an arm over his eyes and laugh-groans to himself. This is certainly an _interesting_ start to the day.

By the time George reappears ten minutes later, Clay is in the kitchen making breakfast. He's not half bad at cooking and since he knows George likes sunny side up eggs, whipping some up seems like the easiest way to non-verbally apologise for - well. That clusterfuck on the couch, really. George's ears are definitely still tinged with pink and initially he looks a little tentative but when he spots the food, he brightens at once and trots over to butter the toast cooling in the toaster and laugh at Clay's failed attempts to get the coffee machine to function. Clay barely manages to keep his whole-hearted sigh of relief in until he's handed over the spatula and retreated to the privacy of the bathroom.

The day continues much more smoothly. They join the rest of the Dream Team in Minecraft and spend a few hours laughing themselves stupid as they perform various challenges with this mod or that mod. When hunger rears its head again, George insists that the time has come for Clay to be reintroduced to London, so computers are shut down, shoes and wallets grabbed, and Clay puts on his bright green hoodie again. George, clad in a t-shirt, snorts and rolls his eyes but makes no comment. If Clay were to look especially closely, he might even notice the way George's gaze lingers briefly, but he doesn't so he misses it.

London's spirit is very different from Clay's home but he admires it all the same. How can he not, when he sees the way it infects George, making him practically sparkle as he drags Clay on a whirlwind of a trip to his favourite burger joint. Clay came here with George last time and he challenges him to remember Clay's favourite burger on the menu, offering to pay for both their food if George's gets it right. There's a queue to the front of the line, which gives George time to hem and haw while Clay giggles unhelpfully next to him, but when they reach the front, George rattles off the correct order without a hitch and a surprised Clay obligingly pays up.

'Of course I remember it,' George scoffs, while they wait for their order. 'You ate almost nothing else for a week.'

Clay makes suitably impressed noises and George looks pleased.

After they've wolfed their food down, George shows Clay a new arcade a few blocks over that's opened up in the back of a cinema. They while away the afternoon and early evening competing on everything from air hockey (Clay wins) to Dance Dance Revolution (George wins), which leaves them sweaty and laughing. When Clay starts overheating two dances in, he tugs off his hoodie, dropping it to one side and only slinging it over his shoulder when they decide to start heading back home. George is sweatier than Clay by several degrees of order and as they walk out into the cool evening air, he shivers, sweat no doubt cooling unpleasantly on his skin. Clay ignores it the first time - it's not unexpected, given the drastic change in temperature around them - but it happens again twice more in the next five minutes and he can see out of the corner of his eye goosebumps prickling up George's arm and neck.

Clay waits until there's a natural lull in their intermittent chatter before dropping the hoodie on top of George's head and, fighting to sound as casual as possible, says, 'Here, put this on.'

George squawks in indignation and rips the hoodie off his head, then seems to suddenly realise exactly what he's holding and his eyes widen, fingers clenching in the soft fabric. 'Oh.' He glances up at Clay. 'You don't want it?'

Clay shrugs. 'I've got sleeves, you don't. You can wear it.'

'Oh,' George repeats. 'Thanks.'

Then he pulls it on and Clay has to quickly avert his gaze so he doesn't trip over his own damn feet while George rolls up the cuffs a couple of times. Seriously, it's just a _hoodie_ , why the hell does he look so - so - so _good_ in it? At least there's no more shivering on the way back and that, Clay tells himself firmly, is all that matters.

The first week of Clay's allotted month in England rolls by in much the same way, i.e. everything's good and fine and fun and great and also Clay is _having a crisis of the heart in slow motion_. It's agonising. He hadn't realised how much harder it would be to exist in the state of "crushing on George" while _living_ with him, which. Retrospectively. Probably should've been fairly obvious. Clay's been friends with George for years, has loved him platonicly _for years_ , and he fell _in love_ with him across the grand distance of four thousand plus miles. Small wonder that that ever-deepening well of feeling is all the more present in Clay's mind now that he's spending a month less than forty _inches_ from George.

Loving George and not being able to _say_ it is slowly but surely driving him to madness. It's a madness that refuses to be contained and the best Clay can do is try and release it in small, unobtrusive ways. He'd say he's not really succeeding on that front except that George has yet to comment or look at him funny for more than a split second or even apparently _notice_.

By the start of the second week, they've somehow reached the unspoken agreement to alternate ownership of the hoodie. Clay has it one day, George the next, and honestly Clay has no idea how that happened. It's also as much of an incitement to his private madness as it is a balm because now he has to live with the knowledge that George is sleeping in a hoodie warm with _his_ body heat and then on the other nights, Clay has to actually get to sleep while wearing a hoodie warm with _George's_ body heat.

The possibility of George returning his feelings does not cross Clay's mind except for him to discard as implausible and outlandish. George has shown no sign of being discontent with their current relationship nor of being interested in men. The fact that vice versa also applies - _Clay_ has never publicly shown any such signs either - is simply irrelevant. George is a shit liar and he blushes like a tomato when he's flustered. No way he'd be able to keep something like _this,_ like the magnitude of all-encompassing, eviscerating, tender, breath-taking emotion occupying the space inside Clay's rib cage, from Clay. There's just no way.

Needless to say, Clay's holiday is certainly not without stress.

Clay is not expecting a repeat of their first night so when it happens, he's more than a little disbelieving.

As his second second week here draws to a close, he and George have fallen into an easy rhythm. Their lives fit with perhaps-not-so-surprisingly little discomfort around each other's, given that this is their first time living for so long together without anyone else around. It's weirdly domestic and unnervingly pleasant, leaving Clay slightly concerned about how he's going to fare when he returns to the States.

Tonight, he and George are stuffing their faces with takeout sushi on the couch (George in the hoodie, approximately two inches between them) while they watch some obstacle course-centred game show, in turns laughing at the disasters unfolding on-screen and discussing how they could replicate, adapt, and improve the various challenges in Minecraft.

Two thirty rolls around and Clay glimpses movement in his periphery just as he feels a thump on his shoulder. He jolts in surprise, eyes going wide and no longer registering anything on the TV. For several long seconds, he stays extremely still, hardly breathing, waiting for George to move. Surely this is a joke, a prank. Surely. No chance this is happening _twice_.

'George?' he says quietly.

No reply.

Clay turns as best he can and sees once more George's slumped body flopped against his own, heavy and warm and limp. Clay's heart twists itself into a pretzel at the sight and he has to face forward again. He has to wake George up this time, he _has_ to. Letting him sleep was a one-time trick and Clay knows this. Nonetheless, it takes him longer than he'd care to admit to finally put a hand on George's arm and gently shake it.

'George, wake up, we're not doing this again,' Clay says loudly. 'C'mon, I'm in jeans and I refuse to sleep in them. Do you know how uncomfortable that is? George. Georgie. Wake up.'

With a dissatisfied grumble, George wakes and sits upright, swaying slightly as he rubs groggily at his eyes. He yawns massively and glances around, seemingly confused to find himself still on the couch. 'What did - oh.' He blinks, visibly waking up a bit more. 'Oh, hell. Did I - I didn't really - I'm -'

Some of the tension in him fading, Clay smiles, endeared beyond what seems reasonable. 'Yeah, you really did.'

George's ears go red and he groans, covering his face with his hands. 'Sorry.'

Clay pats his shoulder. 'I guess I'm just that irresistible, hey?'

George makes a peculiar noise that might've been a laugh if it wasn't so strangled. 'Shut up.' He attempts to glare at Clay between his fingers but he just looks cute. 'Why am I even best friends with you?'

'Because you love me,' Clay singsongs in a display of heretofore unmatched masochism, shoulder-bumping George and sending him toppling onto one elbow with an affronted yelp.

At Clay's tease, however, George abruptly goes very still and his current particularly rosy complexion pales far too rapidly to be healthy. He looks panicky and that in turn makes Clay panicky, his pulse kicking up several notches and his palms threatening to sweat. Has he given himself away? Did he go to far? Is it something _else?_

Before he can ask what's wrong, George says very quietly, 'You. You know?'

The hesitant question is like a wrecking ball straight into the side of Clay's world and everything tilts on its axis by ninety degrees. 'What?' It's his turn to sound strangled. He can't feel his feet or his face.

George swallows hard. 'You must know, right? That's - it's why you've been, you know, staring at me. Right?'

A meteor could crash through the roof right this very second and Clay would be less shocked. Firstly, he's been staring at George? Secondly, George _noticed?_ Thirdly, what the _fuck??_

'Oh my god.' George pushes himself upright, his look of panic descending to one of pure terror. 'Oh my god, Clay, please tell me you _did_ know, please tell me I didn't just _out myself to you -'_

'I'm in love with you.'

Ah, that feels better.

Except that Clay just said those words _out loud_ and to _George_.

'You _what?'_ George yelps, actually slipping off the edge of the couch and landing hard on the floor. He doesn't seem to notice.

'George. Georgie.' Clay hasn't blinked in at least a minute but that doesn't matter as he goes to his knees in front of George. His organs feel like they've had gravity turned off and may either ascend to the sky or crash to the ground, only they haven't quite decided which way to go yet. 'I'm in love with you. I have been for - for months. I don't know. Half a year. More. Georgie, I _love_ you.'

Something terrible and afraid and _hopeful_ crosses George's stricken expression. 'Really?' he asks, barely louder than a whisper. 'Are you - do you mean it, Clay?'

Clay would willingly die right here and now for George to never look so scared ever again. It cuts Clay deep in his heart, where that _ferocious-tender-burning_ thing lives. 'Of course I mean it. I wouldn't - I'd never _lie_ about this.' Then, because he might be sick if he doesn't hear it in as many words - 'You love _me?'_

George laughs breathlessly, still staring at him. 'Yeah. Yeah, I really do. I love you.'

George is hopelessly red again but that's okay because Clay's pretty sure he's tearing up. It's way too late-slash-early for his whole perception of reality to be inverted but here he is. Here they are. Staring at each other like a pair of lovesick fools, which they _are_ , and it's precisely now that Clay decides he's had enough of the space between them, slight though it is. He reaches for George but pauses when George stiffens.

'I'm not - I mean.' George looks down, embarrassed. 'I really need to brush my teeth and anyway it's the middle of the night and I kinda want, I mean, you know -'

'I wasn't going to kiss you,' Clay interrupts, flushing.

'Oh.' George manages to look both relieved and anxious at the same time.

'Not right now,' Clay hurries to explain. 'I. I think I'm in shock and - I was going to leave it till, uh. Morning or something.' Wow, is his face _actually_ on fire yet? 'I just wanted to hug you.' To hold him and be reassured that this is real, this is happening, this isn't a dream.

'Oh, okay. I'd, um, I'd like that,' George says, his tense form relaxing.

Without wasting breath on further words, Clay shuffles forward on his knees till he's wedged between George's legs, hauls George into his arms, and buries his face in short dark hair. George melts and his arms circle Clay's waist, holding on just as tightly. Staggering relief and sheer joy pulse through Clay, bubbles in his blood making him light-headed. In his arms George is solid and warm and undoubtedly real, and Clay lets his wildly spinning thoughts drown under a wave of utter contentment.

He loves George and by some miracle _George loves him too_.

'Clay.'

Clay doesn't want to move or do anything except live in this perfect bubble around them at this very moment so he just squeezes George tighter, hears him wheeze slightly.

'Oh my god, you're so dramatic and you're going to _break my ribs,'_ George gasps, thumping a fist against Clay's side with minimal force. 'I'm not kissing anyone who goes around breaking bones.'

Reluctantly, Clay gentles the embrace again but he still keeps his face tucked close to George's. His cheek brushes George's temple and he knows he's given himself away.

'Are you _crying?_ Oh, you big baby, come here, let me see you.'

Clay sniffs, cursing the traitorous tears creeping down his face. 'I'm not dramatic,' he mutters. Then, right by George's ear, like he's imparting a great secret, he whispers, 'I love you.'

George shivers and puts a hand on Clay's shoulder, pushing him back just enough that they can see each other's faces. Sleepiness visibly clings to him but his eyes are wide and the expression reflected there almost seems to mirror the storm of sweet, sweet emotion consuming Clay from the inside out.

'So I hear,' George says. 'Lucky, because I love you too.' He presses a fleeting kiss to Clay's tear-damp cheek and takes advantage of Clay's immediate shock to scramble to his feet, grinning madly. 'Now, bedtime. The sooner we sleep, the sooner we wake up and fob Sapnap off for - well.' He laughs, quiet and giddy. 'For whatever we feel like. Goodnight!'

He patters away, leaving Clay staring after him. It's a good few minutes before Clay remembers how to get his limbs working again so he can actually _move_ , but the shock must've done something to him because he's asleep almost before his head hits the pillow.

They run into each other at the bathroom sink the next day, sleep-rumpled and questioning their recollection of last night's events. A single moment's eye contact, however, is enough to make George squeak and Clay flush. Neither of them say a word. Instead, they brush their teeth side by side in front of the mirror, George's shoulder brushing Clay's arm and both of them stealing frequent glances.

The second they're both finished, Clay turns to George, drinking in the sight of him, and asks in a hushed voice, 'Can I kiss you now?'

'Only,' George replies, clenching his hand in the front of Clay's t-shirt, 'if I can kiss _you.'_

He tugs Clay down or maybe Clay leans down first, but in any case, Clay ends up with his hands braced on the bench on either side of George, eyes closed as he nudges his nose against George's before finding his parted lips and kissing him sweetly, softly, happily, _hungrily._

Sapnap screams when they kiss on their group video call that afternoon and Clay gets to taste George's laughter firsthand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why the HELL is typing "george" so hard??? i must've misspelled his name a hundred times OTL


End file.
